


by force or by habit

by sirfeit



Category: The 100
Genre: Bad Science, Confinement, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Past Character Death, Psychological Torture, References to Abortion, Solitary Confinement, Unhappy Ending, Unreliable Narrator, anti everyone, very dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:07:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19400935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: a 6x08 fix-it fic; Bellamy gets what he wants





	by force or by habit

**Author's Note:**

> this fic will make everything that happens in season 6 preferable by comparison. yes, it's that kind of fix it. i'm putting the warnings/tags in the end notes due to the fact of 1) spoilers and 2) i have a migraine and don't care right now
> 
> a broad warning: this is Very Dark. this is The Worst Possible Outcome

**fifteen days later**

Autumn has just come to New Arcadia, and it’s different than the vids Bellamy saw on the Ark. There are still seasons here, on this terraformed moon, but they are shorter, and he thinks perhaps, more mild. The trees have begun to change color from dark green to a crunchy orange, and it gets darker earlier. Jordan had measured each day to its summer counterparts, and Bellamy had adjusted the time accordingly. They call it Daylight Savings, like they are putting all of their daylight into a bank, saving it away for later. “For summer,” Jordan had said, unsmiling. “We save it for the summer time.” This boy? He takes his metaphors too literally.

Today he wakes up and he kisses Echo, newly pregnant, glowing like the second sun in the sky. She is still pulling on her boots when he leaves, carrying their laundry in one hand, taking it past the farm to Emori. Emori gives him a passing smile, insincere, but he knows she’s got a lot on her plate these days. He doesn’t hold it against her. “Hey,” he says. “Harvest time is coming, and we’ll get through winter.” She meets his eyes then, looking him over; hale and healthy and better than he ever looked on the Ring (it’s that varied diet they’ve all got going for them), and she gives a quick, sharp nod. “Don’t forget to take a break,” he calls behind him as he takes his leave, heading onwards to check on Raven’s progress with the drones. He enjoys these kinds of days best, checking in on everyone’s progress, figuring out their next steps. Autumn is a time of transition, from summer into winter; from breezy days into bitter cold, from bright sun into darkness. Raven is working on strengthening the radiation force around them, on bouncing radio signals away from the Anomaly, on sending drones out to photograph the surrounding area, on bringing them into the 23rd century. When he leans in the doorway, she has a welding mask over her face and she’s holding a soldering gun against something metal. She raises the visor long enough to tell him to get out, and he does so — Raven and Emori are both on his council, and tomorrow at their meeting, they’ll tell him what’s up. They always give him a talking-to.

Who else is on his council? Jackson, puttering around his office on the west side of town. They’re slowly waking up the people still in cryosleep on the ship, and they all go straight to Jackson. Bellamy has had them gather the supplies to make everyone Nightbloods; he figures that honestly, it will be better and safer for all of them in the end. His council still has to vote on it, but he thinks he has the vote. Even if they’re split, he’s always the tie breaker. There’s no patients today, so he stops and has a chat with Jackson, a little about Echo’s pregnancy — they’re not announcing anything yet, in case something goes wrong, but Jackson’s her doctor, so he’s keeping an eye on it. They want to keep the kid, this time — in this, the new world, theirs at last. Is this what power is? It feels good, even if it’s tinged with guilt. He is happy to do this, for his people, to be responsible for them. Whatever the hell we want? This is what we want. Everyone has a place, nobody goes hungry, and they vote on things, like a democracy, like on the Ark. Or what the Ark used to be. Before he leaves Jackson’s office, he picks up a bottle of painkillers; small, round pills that reduce inflammation and fevers as well as bring down pain levels. Take two at a time, with water and food. Miller and Gaia are going over the week’s shifts when he steps into the guard headquarters; discussing who will mentor former prisoners into valuable assets to their society. Miller waves him over and wants his opinion on their rough draft; Bellamy looks it over and makes a few changes but mostly gives his approval.

His last stop is the farm, where Jordan works and sleeps, sometimes even in his bed and not over a desk. Jordan is making plans for the harvest; studying books to find out what the typical life cycle of these strange plants are, how well they keep, what a winter is like. Bellamy watches him for a while before Jordan notices. “It’s on the ledge,” he says, not bothering to step away from his work. As well as being in charge of the farm, Jordan divides what they get into rations, always saving enough in case of an emergency, like a fire, or what Bellamy thinks winter might be for them.

“Did you pack for me, too?” Bellamy asks. Jordan had forgotten a few times, and Bellamy really thinks he should delegate, but Jordan hardly knows the meaning of the word. It reminds Bellamy of Jordan’s parents; but on the Ring the two of them worked as a team, and Jordan doesn’t keep anyone close enough to do the same. Not since Delilah. Sometimes Madi helps, but her hands are small and she doesn’t have a lot of experience, and she’s still in school with the rest of the moon’s children. Jordan doesn’t have a lot of experience either — that’s why he’s not on the council. Maybe the next term through, he will be.

Jordan isn’t listening to his question, and Bellamy finds two sack lunches waiting for him. He unrolls and checks them through, and they contain the same provisions. Good. He grabs the picnic set from the shelf, and tucks both lunches — well, dinners, really, if they’re going by time, but a sack dinner doesn’t sound as good, does it? — into the basket.

Now. This. This. This is sometimes the best part of his day, but usually it’s the worst. He tries to go into it with an open heart though, and an open mind. It’s just — taxing. It’s a longer walk, farther outside of the main square, past most of the living quarters. Through to the castle where the Primes used to sit and rule. They don’t use the castle now, not just because it is far away and inconvenient, but because of the blood that was spilled there. So it’s a walk, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, as he watches the sun set from the sky, earlier and earlier. In the wintertime, he’ll make this walk completely in the dark. He unlocks the castle door from the outside, but ignores most of the opulence; he descends the stairs immediately to his right, down and down and down into the dark. These lights are motion-based and light up as he comes through, one by one. It’s a long corridor, and he takes the last door to the left, then down another set of short stairs, and then the second door on the right. It’s a maze down here, and if anyone else came looking, it would take a long time to search. He counts on that, but if he ever disappeared in mysterious circumstances, Gaia or Echo or Miller would carry on without him. Nobody on his council can be trusted with this.

This door he has to unlock again and step inside. He flicks the light on here, which is a better announcement of his presence than a greeting.

There is a rattle of chains, and Murphy sits up.

—

Bellamy looks fine. Bellamy always looks fine. Murphy hurts. Murphy hurts where he was stabbed and where he was shot. Murphy chafes at his ankles, at his wrists, at his neck especially, where the collar always bites into him. Every five days the chains come off so that he doesn’t get sores, or infections, or whatever, and then five days later the chains go back on. But the collar always stays on. Murphy knows that Bellamy keeps the remote to it in the picnic basket, but he also knows that he gets shocked if he steps one foot outside his radius, so _even_ if he killed Bellamy, _even_ if he unlocked the cell and got loose from the chains, the collar would kill him.

Some days that seems like a good option. But he would die alone; if the collar doesn’t kill him then the lack of food will, and eventually Echo will come looking for Bellamy, and she would be the worst option out of all of those.

So he stays down when Bellamy flicks the light on. Well, he sits up — he was lying down, looking up at the ceiling, feeling nothing, doing nothing. He lets his eyes look over Bellamy. He focuses in on the picnic basket. Anything he wants to say comes out after the basket is opened, _after_ the sack lunches are taken out, _after_ he gets what he needs. Bellamy has never — has never — taken it away, but Echo has and so has Miller.

“The harvest is almost here,” says Bellamy, conversational. He is always — _like this,_ like they are on the Ring again, like this isn’t — like this hasn’t happened between them. At least to start. Bellamy begins to unpack the picnic basket, laying it out on the little table. There is about six feet of space between his cell and the bars surrounding his cell and the door beyond; Bellamy has dragged a chair down and a table as well, so he can be comfortable just outside. There is the remote to his collar, close at hand. There are two sack lunches, and Bellamy also removes two bowls and one spoon from the picnic basket. “Jordan says that we’re on track to get us through winter, and then some.” Good for you. Sure, it’s in his best interests that the harvest or whatever goes well, and that someone keeps coming down to feed him, but as far as he can tell, he has absolutely no say in the outcome. He survives, regardless. It’s a punishment.

Bellamy steps forward and unlocks the cell door, opening it wide. He drags his chair forward to be across from where Murphy sits now, so that Murphy has to look up to see him. He does this when dinner is going to be messy, or if there’s a special treat in the sack lunches for both of them. Murphy sighs and hauls himself up onto the bench in his cell, so that he can set his bowl down next to him, where it won’t get tipped over. He doesn’t like sitting on the bench. It tugs at the chains at his ankles, and it hurts, and it’s just another one of the hundreds of hurts, and he’s —. He’s tired, okay. He spends all day sleeping and he wakes up and he’s still exhausted and then Bellamy wants to come in here and talk about the _harvest_ or their _supplies_ or how different the plants are. Anything except what really matters, which is why he’s here and when he’s going to get out. If he’s ever going to get out. (So far, the answer to that seems to be _no._ )

Bellamy steps into the cell — no, he _does not_ flinch, thank you very much — and sets down the ceramic bowl, a teeny container of curry, a larger container of rice, and an apple. Then, slipping out of his hand like a magic trick, a glass bottle of lemonade. Murphy’s eyes widen. That’s the treat. He thinks, maybe, an exchange for having to sit up on the bench and eat with his hands instead of a spoon. He also thinks that Bellamy does not give his comfort any thought at all. Bellamy smiles, though, when he meets Murphy’s eyes. Murphy narrows, instantly, and _glares._ Bellamy backs off to the safety of his chair. The cell door stays open. Murphy hates that.

“I have a council meeting tomorrow,” says Bellamy. “If it runs late, I’ll send Echo.”

“Mmm,” says Murphy, tipping the container of rice into the ceramic bowl. Uncaps the curry next and pours it on top. It’s all still warm. The lemonade is cool when he untwists the top and drinks from it. “What are you talking about? At the meeting.”

“We have the technology and the resources to make everyone Nightbloods,” says Bellamy, and his eyes are lit up. Murphy thinks of Emori, and he simmers. He swallows more lemonade. “I just think — it would be more useful, if everyone was. Against radiation. So we’ll be voting on that.”

“Am I on the list?” he asks. “Or am I the test subject?”

“Won’t know until after we vote,” says Bellamy, stirring his curry and rice. “But all of the drives were destroyed, and you won’t be seeing much radiation, so I don’t think it’ll matter either way.”

“Then what’s the point?” Murphy asks his bowl. “There’s no more commanders, there’s no more Primes, the only radiation you see is the shield that keeps out the bugs.”  
  
“A valid point,” says Bellamy. “I’m sure that will get brought up at the meeting. I’ll let you know what we decide.”

“You voted on me yet?” Murphy asks, very careful. “What does — what does Emori think?” Murphy breathes out, slow, and scoops his hand into his curry. He licks it off his fingers. His hands are filthy. He never gets enough water.

“Haven’t voted on you yet,” says Bellamy, easy. “Emori doesn’t necessarily _approve,_ but she doesn’t disagree either.”

Emori. Emori’s small hands on his chest, his face. _I’ll love you forever, even if we die today._ Emori’s scream as she was dragged away from him by a Prime, and he remembers that scream night after night. Bellamy has told him that Emori is alive, that she is on his Council. And now, that she knows he is here. He sets down his lemonade, harder than he means to. Bellamy looks on, curious. “And Raven?” he asks. “What does Raven think?”

“Raven thinks this is just,” he says. “After what you did to Clarke.”

“I didn’t do _shit_ to Clarke,” says Murphy.

“You killed her,” says Bellamy.

“She was _already dead,_ ” Murphy says, and he’s getting heated up again, and they’ve already had this argument. “If you had just _trusted me,_ or _listened_ to me, we could have been immortal.”

“I don’t think we deserve to be immortal,” says Bellamy, and — fuck this. Just. Fuck all of this.

“Maybe we should have voted on it,” says Murphy, with his very best smirk.

“There wasn’t time,” says Bellamy. “And the rest of us were agreed.”

“On the _genocide_ plan?” Please. Keep breathing. Calm down. Bellamy can just walk over whenever he wants and take what he has. And he wants. He wants the lemonade. He wants the light. He wants — the conversation, the information, whatever he can use to bargain.

“It was justified,” says Bellamy.

“Because they killed Clarke,” leads Murphy.

“And you helped,” says Bellamy.

Okay. Okay. Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Blake. Because when he doesn’t sleep, sometimes. He comes back here, and turns the light on again, and they just talk, and it’s — Bellamy promises him things, then. A walk outside, under the red sun. Painkillers, whenever he needs them. A soft bed, no more concrete. Utensils for when he eats. A lamp for inside his cell. He talks about dragging down a water cooler for Murphy, replenishing it once a week, so that he has enough to drink and to wash. “After the vote,” he sometimes says, quiet and urgent. “When things have settled down a bit, we can make this easier on you.” Murphy hates it, and loves it, and wants — he wants —

He doesn’t know who the villain is, here. Is it himself, for killing Clarke, for not taking the higher ground, for bowing to the pressure, the promise, to Josephine? Is it Bellamy, for keeping him here instead of killing him, for setting him up as a scapegoat and letting him fall for it? Again? Is it Echo, who treats him so — callously, who takes away his food for any talk back, who refuses to sit with him for even a moment? Is it Miller? It’s not Miller. Miller’s never been anything more than a henchman, even when he rechains Murphy up after his break with a heavy hand on the shock collar’s remote.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he says, and he means it. He always fucking means it, in the end. “Tell me about the harvest.”

Bellamy smiles at him, gentle, and begins to talk about apple picking or whatever the fuck, as Murphy turns most of his attention to the curry in front of him, and then the apple, and then the lemonade, savoring that one for last. He would keep it, if he were allowed, for longer. Something to keep him awake, to save. But he isn’t allowed. Bellamy watches him, and says something as he swallows the last gulp. “What?” says Murphy, tuning back in.

“Told you not to swallow it,” says Bellamy. “I brought something for you.”

“ _What,_ ” says Murphy, immediately thinking what he could need the last bit of his lemonade for. Wash out the taste of Bellamy’s dick. But Bellamy’s never — done that to him. Never even asked, or implied. And all he can think about it how much it would hurt to kneel in these goddamn chains, if he has to go any farther than he is now. But Bellamy is rifling around in the picnic basket, and he pulls out a bottle. He shakes out two pills. _Painkillers._ Murphy’s breath catches in his throat.

“You have to take them with liquid,” says Bellamy. “That’s why I didn’t want you to finish the lemonade. But take them —“ waits until Murphy’s palm is outstretched, straining against the cuff to get it out far enough “— and drink the rest of mine.” His own lemonade is passed over.

Murphy doesn’t ask questions. He tips his head back and swallows, washes it down with Bellamy’s lemonade. Finishes Bellamy’s lemonade, too, and tucks all of his dishes back into the bowl; the rice container and the curry container, and the two glass bottles. “How long?” he asks.

“Hmm?” Bellamy asks.

“Until it works. The painkillers.”

“About fifteen minutes or so.” Bellamy crosses the distance between them and takes Murphy’s dishes. Murphy watches him, as he backs out of the cell again, as he closes and locks the barred door.

Murphy watches him. He thinks he can already feel the tension leaving him, the pain drifting away. He doesn’t want to, but his mouth moves: “Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” says Bellamy, and he’s smiling again, pleased. “Good night, Murphy.”

“Yeah,” says Murphy, because this is the first time he doesn’t want to sleep the time away in days. He wants to be conscious for every pain-free minute. He sinks back onto the floor, and watches as Bellamy shuts the light off.

—

**six months later**

New Arcadia has been functioning for six months when Bellamy meets with Emori in what used to be the bar. They made it through winter, and the world is starting to be new again: the trees are beginning to bud, and the ground is no longer frozen underneath them. Bellamy slides into a seat across from Emori. She has started binding her hair back again, away from her face.

“You come here often?” Bellamy asks, wry.

“Yes, Captain,” says Emori back, with a kind of wry smirk.

“It’s been six months,” says Bellamy. “You’re thinking the same thing as me?”

“That I want to get drunker than John ever was and stop thinking?” she says, tipping her empty shot glass back and forth on the table.

“Hey,” says Bellamy, and he reaches over the table and touches her hand. “You know why we’re not gonna do that?”  
  
“Waste of resources?” Emori guesses, but she doesn’t refill her glass. “I wish —“

He doesn’t let her finish. He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to let it take root. “Me too,” he says.

“Say something nice about him?” Emori asks, quieter.

He takes a minute. “Remember how we used to have movie nights on the Ring? And Monty made those weird algae ‘bites’ and said they were like popcorn? And we all snuggled together on the floor, watching the film? And it was — safe. Safety in numbers. My whole family, together.” He swallows back the tears welling up in his throat. “Your turn.”

“He asked me to marry him,” says Emori, a note of wonder in her voice. “Got down on one knee, promised to be better for me. Just before it all — happened.”

“What did you say?” Bellamy asks.

“I said yes,” says Emori, and she sniffs, and Bellamy realizes that she’s started crying. She is so — soft. She reminds him of Murphy, in that way; sometimes she’s been crying for a while and you didn’t even notice, it was so quiet. It’s better this way. With Murphy, there was never any rehabilitation, never any — _getting better._ He is protecting her, like he couldn’t protect his sister, his mother. He moves to be across the table, and he wraps an arm around her. She leans her head against Bellamy’s shoulder. They don’t need to talk.

—

Bellamy has not come back for him in five days. Murphy is simmering. He is worried. He is asleep. He is nothing. He is already dead. He is floating. Echo brings light and a sandwich and Murphy sits up and eats it. Then she’s gone and he’s nowhere again, just chained and pain and concrete. Survival, huh? Miller shocks him when he asks about Bellamy, and takes away his water bottle, and if he has to — _if he has to start drinking his own piss again_ — Don’t. Don’t go there. Bellamy will come back. Bellamy doesn’t take things away from him. Bellamy brings him good things. Bellamy brings him conversation, treats him like a human, says he’s gonna make things better. Painkillers always come from Bellamy. From the picnic basket. The two sack lunches; Bellamy eats the same things as him, so he knows he’s not eating garbage.

Bellamy _has_ to come back today. Bellamy always takes the chains off of him on the fifth day. He has five days of freedom before they go back on. Five days of being able to sleep on the bench without everything tugging, hurting. Five days of being able to move, to stretch, to be unencumbered.

But Bellamy doesn’t come back for him. The next time the light goes on, it’s Echo and Miller. They both look grim, determined; he is a task they don’t want to deal with. “On your feet,” says Echo, and he doesn’t move, so Miller — it’s definitely Miller, it’s _always_ Miller — shocks him, and he gets up. Gotta keep his hands just so so that nothing strains, so that nothing hurts.

Miller comes into the cell. Murphy watches him, hollow. Miller puts two soft cuffs around his elbows, unlocking his hands in the same movement where he connects the elbow cuffs somewhere behind him, and then his hands are chained together again, behind his back. Great. So it’s worse. Miller has made his entire life worse in the five minutes he’s been here. And Miller was in the Skybox too, so he _knows._ How your life can just get worse with one change. Miller tugs him back till he’s sitting down on the bench, and Murphy wishes he was asleep again, and Miller takes out a knife, and he hears himself — he hears his heartbeat in his ears, loud, and he’s — tired, and useless, and helpless.

Miller shaves his face. Miller cuts his hair. Miller takes off his chains, including the elbow strap, and then strips him down to nothing. Echo shows her hand; it’s full of shock remote. Like he’s got literally any leverage here. Miller backs out of the cell, shoving his clothes into a bag. Murphy stares at them, defiant, but not dumb enough to start talking. Echo sprays him in the face with a jet of cold water, and it moves down to the rest of his body. It’s fucking _freezing._ It _hurts._ He licks at the water around his mouth. He can squeeze out his hair later and drink from that. And then Miller is holding out a bundle to him, so he stands there. He drips. He breathes. He thinks he might die if Miller shocks him while he’s wet. Electricity — travels, through water, or something. Conduction. He steps forward and accepts the bundle.

It’s a grey, soft, long-sleeved shirt. Warm enough. A pair of sweatpants. Socks. Murphy pulls them on. He drips all over them. Echo glances over at Miller, and gestures a little with her head. Something else. Miller goes back to the bag, and pulls out a pair of warm, burnt orange, knitted slippers. To replace his boots. Murphy pulls them on and he isn’t grateful. Fuck both of you.

“Emori knitted them for you,” says Miller.

“How does she knit with one hand?” snaps Murphy back.

Miller glares at him, and then unlocks the cell door, coming back in. Murphy holds his hands out for the cuffs, but he’s not happy about it. At least nobody expects him to be. Murphy swears the chains get shorter every time. Miller turns to leave, with Echo.

“Wait,” says Murphy, because. Nobody brought him food. “Why — all of this?”  
  
“The vote is tonight,” says Echo, turning back. “The council is coming down to see you.”

 _Fuck._ “What are you voting?” he asks Echo, making her meet his eyes. _Let him die in the field._

“I’m not on the Council,” she says. “But I’ve always thought you should be executed.”

Thanks, Mom.

-*-

When he wakes up again, Bellamy is already outside cell and the light is already on. Bellamy has been crying. Murphy drags himself up. “What?” he says. His hair is dry. He feels dizzy, lightheaded. “Why — what?”

Bellamy wipes at his own face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The council voted.”

“And — what is it? What does that mean?” Is it death? Is he getting out of this cage? House arrest? What is it?

“You’re sentenced to another five years,” says Bellamy. “I’m so sorry, Murphy,” he says again.

“But — the council? Emori? They were supposed to come down? And look?”

“Echo says you slept through it,” says Bellamy. Fuck. _Fuck. “_ I’ll try to make it — as bearable as I can, I swear.” Murphy just stares at him. His face feels hot. His eyes hurt. Bellamy drags himself upright, and unlocks the door to his cell. He has the keys to — he has the keys to the chains. It’s still the fifth day. Murphy feels relief wash over him, heavy. Bellamy unlocks all of the cuffs, and Murphy watches as he tosses them outside the cell.

Five years. Five years down here, in the Primes’ dungeon. Another sentence carried out for another crime he didn’t commit. Murphy buries his face into Bellamy’s shoulder and sobs. Bellamy makes a surprised noise, and — holds him. Carries him down to sit on the ground, and Murphy just clings to him. Bellamy rubs his back, until he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> major character death (before the events of the story), vague references to abortion/ending a pregnancy, unnecessarily detailed explanation of ibeuprofen, confinement, solitary confinement, torture, unreliable narrator, Everybody Lives But You’ll Be Sad About it, manipulation, unhappy ending, Stockholm syndrome, bad science explanations, talk about drinking piss (for survival), gaslighting, Miller being an exceptional jerk, I don’t know how tables work, anti-everyone-you-love, Extremely Dark
> 
> me, complaining about this fic on twitter: too many bowls! too many farmhouses! blocking sucks!  
> you, reading this fic now: aaaaaaaaaa????!?!
> 
> please leave me comments, kudos, or talk to me on twitter @icetastrophe. i live for validation.


End file.
